


The Affair

by greenbriars, provocatelle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kinktober 2020, Pseudo-Incest, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, rip allison argent but i only know how to write one thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenbriars/pseuds/greenbriars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocatelle/pseuds/provocatelle
Summary: Their affair begins not long after the funeral.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 119





	The Affair

**Author's Note:**

> back on my stargent bullshit for kinktober!

Their affair begins not long after the funeral.

It might’ve happened even without that, but perhaps it wouldn’t have happened the way it did—like the pull of a trigger, like holding a lit match to gasoline.

Stiles is in Allison’s room, untouched since the accident. She’d been let in by Mrs Argent and told—ordered—to take what clothes she wants and donate the rest, both of them dry-eyed and making small talk around the aches in their throats, and she’s trying on dress after dress when Chris enters.

On hindsight she sees what might have spurred him on. The two of them looked so similar even then, slender and moon-pale, dark hair curling down to their waists. But in the moment, there’s only the stormy desperation in Chris’s eyes and the shock of his lips on hers, crushed like fresh young petals. When his broad, strong hands fist in the floral print, bunching the fabric around her waist, she knows he trying to tear it off as much as he’s trying to sear it to memory.

It takes her three separate occasions to go through all of Allison’s clothes.

There’s only one time they fuck in Allison’s room, in Allison’s bed, two dozen pictures of a curly-haired girl at various ages grinning down at them, but afterwards the guilt is so overwhelming that they don’t do it again.

The Argents own a timeshare in the Palace Hotel, where the staff have known Chris for years and have made discretion their greatest asset. Stiles tells her father that she’s staying over at Lydia’s, and drives her Jeep to a multi-storey parking lot, where a black town car delivers her to Chris’s arms.

It’s a gorgeous suite, sleek without being cold, luxurious without being gaudy, the sort of place with fresh lilies in a vase every morning.

The first few times, he’s gone by the time she wakes, leaving her sore and a little chilled. But gradually, he stays later and later. They order room service for breakfast, and when she’s done with her scrambled eggs—better than any she’s ever had—he presses her back into the rumpled sheets.

_Does it feel good, baby?_

_It does, daddy, you feel so good…_

He starts to tell her things. Like how he and his wife haven’t spoken in days, how she won’t touch him, and he can’t bear to either, how they both choose to work late so that they can avoid coming home to the girl-shaped hole in their house.

He never cries, but Stiles is becoming increasingly familiar with the pressure of his clenched fist wrapped around her thighs, the sound of his teeth grinding at night, the weight of his weathered face buried into her shoulder, the crook of her neck. He doesn’t drink and he doesn’t smoke. His vices lie elsewhere.

In return, Stiles tells him about the photos in her camera roll that she can’t bear to delete, the nights spent scrolling through old chat logs, the way the hushed laughter of two girls huddled together like inverted commas still wakes her up at night.

Chris buys clothes for her, floral dresses and cotton and lace underthings, white as the driven snow—and by unspoken agreement, she wears them. She doesn’t mind, and anyway, best friends always share clothes, until their fashion styles all bleed together after a while. He buys her clothes so that he can pull them off her, or so that he can fuck her in them. It’s a good thing Allison had worn lots of short skirts. She curls her hair into tighter ringlets, and wears heeled boots for that extra two inches.

But despite herself, she clings to their subtle differences. Matte lipstick instead of lip gloss, cat’s eyeliner instead of mascara. She’s still her own person, for all that their grief is a twinned thing, as if they each had something crucial torn from them, and now they’re stitching their jagged edges together.

It’s mourning of a different sort, and there are more similarities to be found between the cry of the weepers and her own breathy moans. The heels of her patent leather mary janes bump against each other behind his back, as he crouches over her, thrusts into the hot core of her, and sometimes in the reflection of the windows she thinks she looks like someone else.

Did you do this too? Did you want to? she wants to ask. She digs her nails—fresh French manicures—into the skin of his back. His mouth is hot on hers, searing, their breaths mingling and their tongues tangling. His hips bump up against hers, and it hurts like the best bad idea.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks, trailing his fingers up her arm.

“Tomorrow?” Her reply is dazed, sleepy. Her hair is an inky waterfall cascading over her face, and she’s in a silk night-dress. This too is a lie, or some fantasy—Allison had worn baggy shirts and shorts to sleep.

“No.” His hands find her waist, her hip, trailing the soft hem of the night-dress where it flares out over her ass. “After high school.”

She gives a confused chirp. “East Coast,” she says finally, arching up against his touch, cat-like. “College.”

He hums, low in the back of his throat. The room is a dim, golden glow, the bed impossibly soft, and Chris is a warm weight against her side. She drowses, and doesn’t think any more of it.

If her father takes notice, he only comments on it once. “You’re over at Lydia’s a lot,” her he remarks.

“She’s been taking it pretty hard, daddy,” she says, and curses her slip-up.

_Daddy, please don’t stop…_

But he doesn’t notice. He’s been pulling double shifts all week and he’s one strong gust of wind away from collapsing.

The staff at the restaurants she and Chris go to don’t know what to make of them, so it’s easiest for them to treat them like they’re father and daughter, and they act the part.

They act the part all the way up until they’re back in their hotel suite, and Chris fucks her screaming against the floor-to-ceiling windows, laughing and screaming as he winds her mass of hair around his tightened fist, as he gropes her breasts, driving into her with a renewed eagerness. And when they climax, she thinks they’re both going to crash through the glass and plummet into the city lights below.

She graduates, and Chris finalizes his separation, and on the day of the ceremony, her dad comes up to her wild-eyed, frantic, holding up a cream envelope like it’s a bomb. It’s from a mysterious benefactor, containing a letter with generic congratulations and a scholarship worth half a million dollars, to a fancy East Coast college that she’s coveted for years, harboured a fervent flame for.

She goes upstate. Her dad thanks Chris Argent for offering to drive her, for sorting out her new apartment lease and helping her move in. Work’s been impossible lately, a deluge of new cases landing on his desk at the same time. Chris brushes aside his gratitude, says it’s no problem at all, that it’s his genuine pleasure.

They christen every surface of the new apartment, after Stiles fills it with plants and warm earth tones and an ottoman she thrifted from a market. There’s nothing girly about it, no memories lurking in forgotten corners. He takes her twice, and then falls asleep on her brand-new comforter, his face relaxed in sleep in a way it never is upon waking.

His hand finds her waist almost upon instinct, and he pulls himself closer. His mouth brushes the point of her shoulder. With one hand, she props her head up; with the other, she runs a finger lightly over the crags and crevices of his face, follows the touch with a brush of her lips. Mapping out the cartography of their joined forms. She hadn’t realized it until just now, but somewhere along the line, she’d stopped feeling so irreparably disassembled. She’s been putting herself together, piece by piece, and for the first time in a long time, she feels almost complete. Whole. 

“Stiles,” he grumbles against the edge of her freckled collarbone. “Go to sleep.”

“I will,” she insists, and he drops off before she’s even done speaking.

It’s funny, but she thought that the sum total of their understanding was that they were both running from something, that they just happened to be running from the same thing, from phantoms and stolen futures, at the same speed, side by side. It was only natural for them to reach out for one another. 

It’s an impossible love. It should end in tragedy. And yet here they are, his fingers intertwined with hers.

So perhaps they were both running towards something, after all.


End file.
